


A Bit of a Bore

by Himring



Series: Gloom, Doom and Maedhros [12]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boredom, like beauty, may be in the eye of the beholder</p><p>Maedhros receives a series of messengers from Fingon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of a Bore

**Author's Note:**

> A slightly older story, kindly nominated for the MEFAs 2010 by Lyra.

Maedhros:

_...And finally, cousin, I must express my thanks to you for your choice of the messenger you sent...._

Fingon:

 _Oh, dear, he’s being sarcastic, isn’t he? I wouldn’t normally have sent Lamaen. He’s got a heart of gold, but he could talk a hind leg off a donkey!_  

 

Some of the messengers he sends are hard work.

‘My lord Fingon ceaselessly guards the Mountains of Shadow’, they intone.

‘I am delighted to hear it. Pray continue.’

‘Prince Fingon pays continual attention to the security of the borders in the Northwest.’

‘Indeed? That is very good to know.’

Silence.

_For pity’s sake, that is all you think Maedhros, son of Feanor, could legitimately to want to know about the cousin who saved him from Angband?_

They’re Noldor, mostly, and have got memories of the Ice and the hardship of the crossing in their eyes. It makes them hard to argue with. Still, I might speak my thought aloud, if things were quite as straightforward as that, if there was nothing else for me at stake. But I can’t afford to draw any attention to what I might be feeling.

I take them as I find them. If matters of defence are all I’m permitted to be interested in, then at least I will know all about matters of defence. I fix a steely gaze on them and subject them to a relentlessly polite cross-examination. They don’t leave my presence, until I’ve extracted every last piece of current information from them that might be relevant to our defence against the Enemy.

They depart exhausted, but oddly satisfied, for this, it seems, is who they now expect Maedhros to be: a bad friend, a good ally. They would be surprised, I think, to learn that as far I am concerned, the interview was not a success, but a stalemate. I didn’t foresee how their perception of me might shift as soon as I removed myself from their line of sight. It is as if they’ve conveniently forgotten that—despite my unusually thorough study of the records of the march from Cuivienen while we still lived in Aman—I’ve been inventing myself as a military leader as I go along just like everyone else and even that my career in that line began with a spectacular disaster. It is true that I have had my successes since...

It could be worse, much worse. I can handle being Maedhros the Ever-Vigilant. For some reason, it seems to work better than being Maedhros the Permanently-Afraid, in spite of their boiling down to pretty much the same thing.

I’m tired, too; dishing out a diplomatic grilling is as gruelling as receiving one. There is, of course, still the letter itself to hold on to—the letter that they brought, written in Findekano’s own hand and, of necessity, too short, since it can never contain all the answers I need...

_How do you spend your time, cousin, when you’re not alertly patrolling the Ered Wethrin—as they claim you ceaselessly do? Who do you spend it with? Are you...happy...content...at least not unhappy?_

But I cannot go and see for myself. I ‘m committed here and _—_ anyway,why make myself leave in the first place if I can’t resist rushing back to check on him?

 

The Sinda, for a change, was easy to handle. I took him to a sheltered nook, saw him comfortably seated next to me underneath the trellis and filled his glass. At once, he was off. ‘Master Fingon’ had done this and ‘Master Fingon’ had said that... Out it came, all higgledy-piggledy, everything the others had thought I could not possibly want to know:  names and more names—of people, of horses and of hounds... And ordinances drafted, uses of unfamiliar plants, experiments in archery, state of the roads, weather, laundry lists, terms of military service, medical treatment of orc bites, menus, music, missing socks, good harvests, wretched harvests, births, books, burnt porridge, burnt fingers, bridges washed away by the spring floods, more weather, wood logging and forestry, imported wine, deepening a well...

All I had to do was smile an encouraging smile now and then, very occasionally give a nod of assent, and avoid too much eye contact, as that seems to worry Sindar. I topped up his glass once or twice, to prevent his talking himself hoarse. Here they were, the trivial and not-so-trivial details of Findekano’s life, in colour!  My mind was busy piecing bits and pieces together as he spoke--and if there was a bit of repetition here and there, why not? I could bear to hear his name spoken any number of times with such obvious affection.

I think it must have been a good two hours before even Lamaen ran out of breath.  I thanked him cordially and left him there to sit in the sunshine and rest, while I went up to my study. The letter Lamaen had brought was lying on the desk, the parchment Findekano’s hands had touched, the neat loops and angles of the tengwar we had practiced writing together so long ago. I already knew most of the text by heart. I sat down, propped my elbow on the desk and my cheek against my palm. Then I read the letter again, slowly, mentally filling in all the little details I’d just learned.

But as I was indulging in this comparatively innocent pastime, an image forcibly interposed itself that Lamaen’s ramblings did not support in any way at all, an expression on Findekano’s face that I had never seen: softening, as he might look at a lover. I sagged forward a little, as guilt dropped onto me like a yoke, sunk my teeth so savagely into my lower lip that it split and a tiny splash of blood dripped onto the page, but still the thought surfaced that I had been trying so hard not to think. How shameful to wish to deny to others what I myself could never reach out for, in any case!  But there it was, the feeling of selfish relief: however much I might envy those close to him, there was, it seemed, still nobody in particular to be jealous of.

 

The messenger’s report:

__Yes, Master Fingon, we had a nice little chat, Prince Maedhros and I. He was well pleased—see, he took this pendant off his neck and gave it to me for my very own!  Very attentive, very polite, your cousin...and clearly loves you well..._ _


End file.
